Give
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: The thing that Ichigo remembers most is that other sword's loneliness, as though Tensa Zangetsu was facing the destruction of his entire world and could do nothing to prevent it—as if he were aiding in it, and could not bring himself to stop.


**Pairing: **_Tensa Zangetsu x Ichigo Kurosaki_

**Music:** Mysterious Ways_, by U2_

**Word count:** ~ 1800

**Rating:** M

**A/N: **_MAJOR spoilers from the manga—chapter 409 up to the current. And I have taken dialogue directly, as well. It's in italics. I don't own it. This is for _**MilkyWayGalaxy**_, who requested it and left a very sweet review. Thank you! _

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_**Prompt 27: **__Give_

* * *

Their entire world is built on the concept of give and take.

It is over. Aizen is defeated. The shinigami have retreated to Soul Society once more, to lick their wounds and recover from the war. His family is as normal as it has ever been (which, admittedly, isn't very). His friends are moving on with their lives, moving forward, and Ichigo is glad for them.

Sometimes, though, he feels just a little out of place, stuck in the past as he is.

He can't help but remember, can't help but dwell on their last meeting, their last words. In that place, like the watery grave of an entire world, he had faced Ichigo with an aggression that Ichigo had never witnessed in the cool, careful being before.

_Make no mistake, Ichigo. The things that _you_ want to protect are not the things that _I_ want to protect._

The thing that Ichigo remembers most is that other sword's loneliness, utterly bleak and empty, as though Tensa Zangetsu was facing the destruction of his entire world and could do nothing to prevent it—as if he were _aiding_ in it, and could not bring himself to stop. In the face of that loneliness, so contradictory to his fierce, ferocious eyes, there was nothing Ichigo could do but _think_.

_Why?_

_Why is he doing this?_

Then, when Ichigo had let go of his sword and accepted the attack, those eyes had gone wide with something like horror, or resignation, or grief, or an aching, soul-deep weariness, or a mixture of this, or maybe none of them at all.

The blade had plunged through his chest, painless but piercing, and that gaze had turned ever so slightly wistful, ever so slightly fond. And he had bowed his head, like the weight of an entire world had suddenly come crashing down upon his shoulders, as though he had lost everything that ever meant anything to him, and he had _cried_. Silently, beautifully, full of that same empty pain that Ichigo had felt echoing through his soul and which had absolutely nothing to do with the blade in his chest.

_Do you remember what we said when we began this fight? The things that _you_ want to protect…are not the things that _I_ want to protect._

_What I wanted to protect…_

…_was _you_, Ichigo._

There are no words, no way of measuring that level of selflessness, and Ichigo, for one, will not try. Tensa Zangetsu surrendered his life, his very existence, in helping Ichigo.

To defeat Aizen, Ichigo surrendered a piece of his soul.

Now he desperately, desperately wants it back.

He knew, from the very start, that the final Tensa Zangetsu would mean the end of everything—the end of his life as a shinigami, as anything more than a normal human. But he wonders, sometimes, if he would have gone through with it if he had known it would erase Tensa Zangetsu so completely.

He's powerless, and sick of it, and so he jumps at the chance to regain his power.

_Maybe_, he thinks, as he picks the phone up from its cradle, _maybe if go far enough, I'll regain _all_ of my powers._

It's reckless, and it's stupid, but Ichigo submerges himself in EXECUTION without further consideration. As much as he has ever wanted to be a normal human, he'd much rather have his soul complete. He'd much rather face any battering by his Hollow, any fury from either the old man or Tensa, because just seeing then again will make it all _worth it._

Of course it's a trap.

But as that glowing sword stabs though his chest, yet again, and his inner world rises like a tide to sweep back reality, he can't bring himself to feel even the slightest remorse.

And Tensa is waiting for him, as though he had never left, as though Tensa had never been gone, and his pale, beautiful face is sharp with something like anger, or joy, or painful happiness, and Ichigo tumbles into his grasp without thought for propriety or façade or his usual prickliness, and Tensa _catches him_.

In that moment, the world is remade anew, and _better_.

"I'm sorry," Ichigo says, because it _has_ to be said—it's all he's been hearing in his mind for _months_ now. "I'm sorry."

Long-fingered, elegant hands close over his elbows, and Tensa looks at him with grave, solemn eyes. "Would you do it again?" he asks.

Ichigo closes his eyes, not letting go of Tensa's coat as he considers. At length, he shakes his head. "I don't know." And he doesn't, because he wanted to defeat Aizen, but there's a little voice in the back of his head that says _"There had to have been another way. That couldn't have been the only one."_ It's not a nice voice, but Ichigo is almost certain that it's right. Even if he hadn't done that, Urahara would have found a way, or one of the other captains would have, or _something_. Ichigo isn't—wasn't—even a shinigami. Not really. Why should he have to bear the mistakes of a whole world, and sacrifice parts of his _soul_ to do so?

"My zanpakuto is part of my soul, right?" he asks, looking up into the pale, clear eyes of the spirit holding him up. "But you're separate. I feel…"

There are no words, but there is no _need_ for words. Tensa smiles at him, one hand rising to trace over his cheekbones, to ghost over his hair. He's kept it longish, as a reminder, as a way to remember what happened in that sunken, drowning world whenever he looks in the mirror. Not that he needs it, really, but it's a touch of comfort in an otherwise comfortless world, and that's enough.

But now, here, he has Tensa right in front of him, and that comfort is unnecessary.

"I, as well, Ichigo," Tensa murmurs, and he's smiling, just slightly. It's enough to see that quirk of lips, that faint hint of brightness in pale blue-green eyes. He's Ichigo's height, almost exactly, and when Ichigo leans forward, their lips meet perfectly, as though they were made to, and nothing has ever been more perfect in the history of the world than Tensa's hands on his skin and in his hair and Tensa's lips on his.

They break the kiss, just for a moment, but Tensa doesn't waste time asking if Ichigo is sure, if he's certain that this is what he wants. There's no need, because he knows as well as Ichigo that Ichigo _is_. Neither of them has ever been more certain about something, more united. They're one already, truly, and this is just extra.

* * *

To Ichigo, hate is many things.

It is cold.

Obsessive.

Bitter.

Dirty.

Dark.

Hate is many things.

More than anything else, it is easy.

* * *

To Ichigo, love is many things.

It is unbearably intense.

Consuming.

Agonizing.

Devouring.

Terrible.

Love is many things.

Easy is not one of them.

But this—this _is_ easy, because it is already done. It _has_ already been done, and there is nothing left to say or do that would not be redundant. He loves Tensa Zangetsu in a way he has never loved anyone before, and the pain of loving—from those he has loved and has lost—is little in comparison.

After his mother's death, he had sworn to himself that he would not love again, would not love outside his family or those he _knew_ he could always protect.

But it is not so easy, even though he never fell victim to the power of "love at first sight" (or that's what Orihime claims it was, at least) like his friend. She'd had her heart broken, even though he didn't mean to do it, and Ichigo had taken further steps to make sure something similar never happened to him.

Still, when love does come again, it is as cunning and insidious as he has always feared. It does not attempt to woo him with pretty words, or gallant gestures, or delightful charm. No. When it comes, it is a typhoon, a thunderstorm in a mortal body, with flashing eyes like a drowning world, and hair darker than a raven's wing. It is a man who burns with violence only just contained beneath a façade of cool control, and who comes down on Ichigo's life like a storm breaking.

And Ichigo falls in love with a fierce, ferocious, furious spirit. It's quick, too, though he knows it shouldn't be, but he can't even slow it down, let alone stop it completely.

_Make no mistake, Ichigo. The things that _you_ want to protect are not the things that _I_ want to protect._

He doesn't have to say the words. Tensa already knows. Tensa probably knew before he did, felt it when he looked at Ichigo with those lonely, empty eyes and said that the only thing he had ever wanted to protect was Ichigo.

Ichigo's inner world is dry once more, and as Tensa bears him down to the surface of one of the sideways buildings, Ichigo can almost _feel_ it thrumming with life, burning with power that is _his_ and _theirs_ and _shared_ and _given_ and _taken_. It's the same between them, as clothes are stripped away and they kiss and their bodies slide together in a way that's probably illegal in several dozen countries, because nothing that feels _this good_ can be completely permissible. Ichigo is half surprised that they aren't dying already, because pleasure like this will probably kill them if they're exposed to it again.

But _oh_, what a way to go.

It's sweaty and sticky and hot and desperate, because there are _months_ separating them when before there was nothing, and Tensa kisses Ichigo as though he'll crawl inside him and eat him from the mouth down. Ichigo kisses back the same way, not caring that he's tasting blood—from one of them or both of them?—from where teeth have nicked at lips a little too hard. But _too hard_ is _wonderful_, and if they can't breathe for kissing, dying this way is just a bothersome side effect.

"One," Tensa whispers, even as the world around them collapses and is remade—better, newer, _together_.

"One," Ichigo answers.

Love has never been easy before.

But here, now, together, as _one_, it actually kind of is.


End file.
